


Belladonna

by missmungoe



Series: Obsidian [2]
Category: One Piece
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/M, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-22
Updated: 2016-11-22
Packaged: 2018-09-01 09:54:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8619829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmungoe/pseuds/missmungoe
Summary: In spite of his reputation, the weight of his undivided attention is easier to bear than anyone else's.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Set during Lilacs Out of the Dead Land.

The meeting was crawling to a close, although she’d long since tuned out the mindless droning of the government official they’d sent; a man whose eyes kept sliding towards her side of the room, Hancock had noted the minute she’d stepped foot inside.

Not a youngster this time, although that was usually preferable. The younger ones were all honest bluster, eyes wide and blinking, and having trouble picking their jaws off the floor. The older men fancied themselves something else—not as obvious in their appreciation, but their looks lingered all the longer, and there were darker things in those gazes than the puppy-like attentions of the younger recruits. As though they prided themselves on their ability to keep their attraction from being obvious—as though she would appreciate it, the stolen glances, and the promises sitting in them.

It made her skin crawl, and she resolutely kept her expression blank, counting down the seconds until they were free to leave, gaze fixed on a point across the room, a fissure in the wall between the windows. The voice droned on and on, and she felt her breath sitting heavier and heavier in her chest. And it was a struggle keeping her chin up, pretending to listen, so acutely aware of the eyes sliding across her form from time to time, but also those that didn’t, sitting beneath the wide brim of a familiar hat across the room to her left.

They’d been there an hour, and Mihawk hadn’t looked at her once.

She felt restless—felt flushed, like she was angry but couldn’t put her finger on _why_. Their arrangement was a private thing, and fiercely so. Nothing they said or did indicated that there was anything between them but a strictly professional relationship, if even that. He’d not been excluded from the open hostility she showed every other man, and so there wasn’t anything for anyone to draw their assumptions from, if they had any.

And she preferred it this way. Didn’t she? Better there weren’t any rumours, for her own sake as much as his. Easier on them both, in their dealings with the Government. And yet…

And yet what she wouldn’t have given to have his steady gaze on her back, instead of the lingering glances from the official who was, somehow, still talking.

“Dismissed,” said the voice then, a perfunctory command without any feeling, and Hancock had turned on her heel before she’d had time to catch the look on the man’s face, knowing already what she would find in it.

Her steps betrayed her attempted ease but she didn’t care, the click of her heels against the polished floors ringing loudly in her ears. She was without her sisters and she regretted the decision now, anger sparking within her at the fact that she’d grown so comfortable with the protection of their presence, she felt— _naked_ , without them.

Her rooms awaited her at the end of the long corridor, and she’d swept through the doorway and locked the door behind her before she allowed herself to _breathe_ , her anger escaping in a sharp gust and a wordless oath hidden in the sound, before she drew herself up to her full height, taking some comfort in the familiar gesture.

So many years under the tender scrutiny of a hundred eyes just like that, and there was still part of her that recoiled so violently.

Kicking off her shoes, she made for the washing room, running restless fingers through her hair, if only to give them something to do. She’d be going back to Amazon Lily in the morning—would have gone sooner, if she didn’t already have plans. Or not so much plans as _hopes_. Given his aloof nature it was impossible to tell if he was even amenable to continue their arrangement, or if he’d grown bored, as she’d been told men did.

The thought sat like a jagged rock behind her ribs, and Hancock pointedly refused to acknowledge it.

Removing her earrings, she left them by the sink, and considered herself in the mirror for a moment, brow slackening when she noticed the heavy press of it above eyes that looked too tired for the anger she’d have preferred to see. But she’d been sleeping poorly—had been ill some mornings, waking only to empty her stomach into the chamber pot. No fever, and no other suggestions that anything was amiss. The stress, probably. She’d have the doctor check when she got back.

A knock on her door then, and she stiffened, hands clenching around the edge of the sink. It wasn’t the first time someone tried their luck and she doubted it would be the last, but it still rankled, although she couldn’t tell what bothered her most—that they thought she’d welcome their advances, or that, for all her powers and all her strengths, she couldn’t keep her hands from shaking.

“Boa,” the voice said then, in that familiar, drumming baritone, and her breath rushing out of her alerted her to the fact that she’d been holding it.

Mihawk didn’t say anything else, and she knew that if she didn’t answer he’d leave—knew it with such staggering certainty she didn’t know what surprised her most; the feeling itself, or the fact that there was no doubt to be found, no matter how thorough her search. Although had there ever been, where he was concerned?

Padding across the carpeted floor, she spared only half a thought to her state of partial undress, but couldn’t be bothered. He’d seen her in far more vulnerable states than this, shoes and earrings missing, but it was still a small marvel that she hardly hesitated before gripping the handle.

She unlocked the door, but he didn’t let himself in—didn’t so much as walk across the doorstep before she’d opened it fully, and there was a quip at the tip of her tongue, a rare sort of humour, to ask if he truly was as vampiric as the rumours suggested.

But she held it open, the invitation clear, and when he was fully inside she closed the door behind him, but didn’t turn around to face him immediately, suddenly keenly aware of his presence, looming large and dark at her back. It was a different sort of awareness than the one she’d felt in the conference chamber, not kinder but something else, something rare that she wondered might have something to do with her.

Still, despite the weight he carried with him he’d never made her feel small, or even attempted to, and she’d been so busy considering the thought that she didn’t realise she’d yet to turn around.

She felt his palm curving under her elbow then, and when he tugged gently she followed. And when she found his gaze now there was no question of where he was looking.

His hand was still on her elbow, and she felt the press of his fingers against her skin, beneath the sheer fabric of her loose sleeve. He was warm, in a way that never failed to surprise her—a welcoming, enveloping sort of warmth that spoke of life and some uncanny, deep-rooted strength, and she felt her shoulders relax even though he’d yet to move his hand, or touch her further.

She moved then, intent on walking past him, an invitation in the gesture even before the words were off her tongue, “I have had enough of staring for one day. Or did you not come to join me?”

But she’d taken less than a single step when she felt his hand tighten its grip, and when he tugged next it was with none of the care he’d shown her before, but she revelled in it, the briefest slip of that iron control that she took such pains to unravel any chance she got, and when her back collided with the door it was a smile that met his kiss, as his fingers came to curve around the back of her neck.

His hands threaded through her hair before sliding down to grip her shoulders, and when she sank into the kiss she felt the tension of the day bleed from brittle bones. And his strong frame was familiar against her own, her hands following paths she’d learned to know, along his broad shoulders, to tug teasingly at his hair. A nudge of her fingers and the hat fell, and when she drew him closer he came, following her small movements with more ease than a man as stubborn as him should display so proudly.

Another knock sounded then, against the door at her back, and she stiffened against him, hands tightening with surprise against his jaw. And she’d forgotten—between his arrival and his close proximity after so many weeks without it, she’d forgotten what she’d been bracing herself for; what usually awaited her on those rare visits to Headquarters where she didn’t bring her sisters. Unsolicited attentions that she usually met with a cold shoulder and a colder dismissal, and she wondered if he had known—if that was why he’d been so quick to follow her, instead of waiting until nightfall as he usually did.

Mihawk had gone quiet against her, and she felt his steady presence; felt the even beat of his heart under her palm, splayed flat against his chest. She wondered a moment if he might speak, but the eyes holding hers were unreadable, and she couldn’t tell if he was waiting—and if so, for what.

Then, irritation sparking, fierce as a small fire at the unwanted interruption, at the _gall_ , and, “ _Leave_ ,” she snapped, inclining her head towards the door, the single word a clear, cutting thing. Her tongue was her only blade, but she watched his mouth quirk, pleased with the way she wielded it, as only a master swordsman would be.

There was a moment before she heard the receding footsteps, but she didn’t hold her breath this time, and when the official was gone her relief was a self-satisfied, almost prideful thing, like a cat stroked to purring.

“What?” Hancock asked, noticing his look; not unreadable now, but she’d yet to pin a name to this particular expression.

And she was tempted— _sorely_ , to ask what that look meant, and if it meant what she thought it might; that her absence had been felt in the weeks that had passed since they’d last seen each other. But it still seemed too new a thing, this arrangement of theirs, to ask such questions. And they weren’t people suited for those kind of assurances, even though she so keenly felt her body’s reaction to him now, mellow and soft under his touch.

“I had forgotten,” Mihawk said then, voice a deep rumble, but tinged with a strange sort of fondness, “How much sting your rejection carries.”

Hancock sniffed. “You were never so vulnerable as to allow for that,” she pointed out, perhaps more sharply than she’d intended, but—no, it had been her who’d bared herself. He’d suffered no blow to his pride, barring what he’d termed her ‘foolish infatuation’ with Luffy, which had seemed to rankle more than he cared to admit, even now.

A touch against her cheek then; not a tender thing, but achingly deliberate. “No?”

“Hmm. A real hawk would sooner let me pluck its feathers,” she quipped drily, gaze holding his, but the arch of her brow was a challenge as clear as his own tended to be.

His laughter fell then, loud and abrupt, and such a genuinely _startling_ sound, it took her a moment of simply staring at him, mouth parted with her surprise.

“A vivid image,” he offered back, with a wryness that held more amusement than anything else, and Hancock huffed, even as her smile lurked along the curve of her mouth.

“And no less fitting for it. You are an exceedingly proud man,” she retorted.

“Likewise, woman.”

“And yet I have shed _my_ skin, to continue in line with the appropriate animal imagery.”

“Yes,” he agreed, one of his hands pushing the sleeve of her blouse off her shoulder, golden eyes tracking the movement with near predatory intent. “And have I not adequately demonstrated my appreciation?”

She felt the kiss against her shoulder, and sniffed, although the shiver hadn’t gone past his notice, judging by the smirk. “Not the sort of exposition I was referring to.”

“As I am well aware,” he spoke the words against the juncture of her neck, and when she tilted her head the open-mouthed kiss to her collar made her sink against the door. And she felt his smile against her skin, too wide for a simple quirk of the lips that was his usual way, but she couldn’t have hoped to decipher the things that sat in it, although it made her wonder, that perhaps she’d been too quick in her judgement.

The press of his hand against her lower back dragged a contented sound from her chest, along with the awareness—a strangely detached thing now, feeling the deliberate placement of his palm, just below the lower edges of the brand. He always took his time—didn’t ask for permission, but didn’t take liberties, either. And she no longer flinched when she felt the brush of his fingertips against the scarring, until the warm weight of his palm covered it whole.

Then—“Hancock.” Not Boa, now—never _Boa_ , after they’d crossed this line between strict professionalism and…whatever they were; after reaffirming that their arrangement was still desired on both ends. A strange ritual maybe, but then they were neither of them ordinary people.

The tilt of her head allowed him better access, and she felt his reaction keenly in the press of him against her, and perhaps she wasn’t the only one who _yielded_ , she found, dragging a hoarse rasp of sound from his chest that made her mouth quirk. Perhaps his relinquishment of pride and control was just a different sort.

The grip of his hands against her hips was a warning, and when he lifted her she followed, thankful for his considerable height as she wrapped her legs around him and allowed him to carry her weight. And if he stumbled once, the heel of his shoe slipping on the edge of the carpet, her wicked grin was punishment enough, even as she felt his counter in the careless manner with which he disposed of her on the bed.

And the events of the day felt suddenly far away—as far as her home, although the thought didn’t sit with quite the same weight in her mind now as she wound her hands through his hair and _pulled_ until he muttered an oath against her mouth. He wasn’t any less elegant here than he was in battle, but there were ways to trick even the most sure-footed swordsman —little things that she’d learned, like the sensitive spot just below his abdomen, or the fact that she could drag sounds from him that were more noise than actual words. It was an ever-growing trust, the one that existed between them, and that she felt so vividly in the ease with which she bared herself now under his touch.

And if she felt like laughing—if she felt the stirrings of that rare feeling deep in her gut, threatening to push up her throat in a sound that almost never escaped her…well.

Stranger things had happened on this ocean.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The thought struck her later, long after he’d succumbed to sleep, his own trust in her never as evident as when she felt the heavy rise and fall of his chest under her ear, and heard the even breaths that spoke of an earnest exhaustion, shared without reserve.

Curled on her side and with her head cushioned on his shoulder, Hancock considered the naked expanse of his chest, and his nose, tucked into her hair. His eyes were closed, a rare sight she wondered just how many had ever seen in truth, and his brow was slack of its usual tension. But it was difficult fixing her gaze on anything, and to focus on anything beyond the sudden realisation that had struck, somewhere between considering their easy intimacy and the long way they’d come since their tentative, and near hostile beginning.

Her illness—the vomiting that came and went. Six weeks since they’d last seen each other, and she knew the basics—knew them intimately because a woman with her past had once needed to know, all the signs and their reasons. _The dangers._ But freedom had made her reckless, had made her _forget —_

She forced herself to be calm, to allow her breaths to sit, quiet and even in her chest so as not to wake him, as she focused on wrangling her racing thoughts into something manageable. She would confirm it when she returned home. There was no need to lose her head before she was absolutely certain, beyond a shadow of doubt, even though she could feel it now, the full weight of her suspicions bearing down upon her with staggering conviction.

But— _no_. Not yet. In the morning they’d part ways, and she would have miles of sea to consider her thoughts, and all the implications —what it would mean for her, and for him. For the world they called their own, which had no love for the children of pirates.

Although even as she attempted to force her thoughts onto a different path, it was difficult, tracing the bridge of his nose and his sharp features, and not wonder what they might look like, on an entirely different sort of face.

 


End file.
